DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

leave,” said Frost. “This is a very serious charge.”
    “Then I demand some time alone with my client.”
    “Fair enough.” Frost gathered up his cigarettes and his matches. He was reaching for the door handle when Miller’s resolve broke.
    “Wait, Inspector.”
    Frost dropped his hand and slowly turned around.
    Miller, the arrogance completely drained out of him, fumbled in his pocket for a slim, gold-and-black-enamelled cigarette case. He removed a cigarette which he kept tapping on the case. “I think I’d better tell you the truth.”
    Moore pushed in front of him. “Not until you’ve discussed it with me.” He moved to Frost. “We have nothing to, say until we have reconsidered our position.”
    “I didn’t park the Jag in Norman Grove,” continued Roger doggedly. “I wasn’t at my flat at all last night.”
    Moore was shaking with rage. He grabbed his client’s shoulder and spun him around. “If you wish me to continue representing you, Mr. Miller,” he spluttered, "you will remain silent until we have talked together.”
    “If you want to continue being my father’s solicitor, men shut up, you fat slob,” snapped Miller. “And take your greasy hands off of me.” The solicitor collapsed heavily on to a chair and dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief.
    Making sure that Webster had his notebook open and his pen poised, Frost asked, “So where were you last night, sir?”
    “I was with a girl ... I couldn’t mention her before - she is someone my father would strongly disapprove of.”
    “In that case I’m beginning to like her already,” said the inspector.
    “How long were you with her?”
    “From seven yesterday evening until a little after eight this morning. The car was stolen from outside her flat. Damn it, Inspector, I couldn’t let my old man know where I was, so I pretended it had been taken from Norman Grove. Obviously, I had no idea it had been used in a hit-and-run when I phoned the police, otherwise I would never have tried it on.”
    Frost said nothing. Webster’s pen sprinted across the page. Moore took off his glasses and held them to the light so he could better examine the dirt on the lenses. Then he put them back on his nose. “You were with her all night, from seven until eight this morning? You didn’t go out?”
    Roger nodded.
    “Would the girl corroborate all this?”
    “Of course.”
    The solicitor’s deep sigh of relief was followed by a smile of triumph. “In that case, Inspector, there is no way my client could have been involved in the death of that unfortunate man. He has an alibi.”
    Frost’s deep sigh was one of regret. He was hoping for a confession, not more flaming checking up to do. “Would you mind giving us the lady’s name and address, sir?” he asked the young man sweetly. “Just in case we wanted to check your story.”

    Her name was Julie King. She lived in an older-type house that had been divided up into six single-bedroom flats. It was situated in Forest View, a quiet backwater overlooking Denton Woods. The unlocked front door allowed access to a small hall containing a letter rack, a pay telephone, and a fire extinguisher. Julie King’s flat was on the first floor.
    A flight of stairs took them up to a landing where two doors stood side by side. On the first, a card attached by a drawing pin read “J. King’. The door to the other flat still had a morning newspaper poking through the letter box and a pint bottle of semi skimmed milk lurking on the step.
    “Flats of a couple of prostitutes,” observed Frost, making one of his ill-considered judgements. “One works days, the other nights. Let’s call on the day shift.” He thumbed the bell to Julie King’s flat.
    “This isn’t a bad neighbourhood,” remarked Webster as they waited.
    “As long as you don’t mind being raped,” said Frost. “The woods are only a couple of streets away.”
    The door, held firm by a strong chain, cautiously opened a few inches. A female voice demanded, “What do you want?”
    “Police,” said Webster, holding out his warrant card to the gap. A hand with long orange fingernails took it, then withdrew. The door slammed shut, then there were sounds of the chain being unhooked before the door opened fully.
    A sexual fantasy of nineteen or twenty throbbed and vibrated in the doorway. Her jeans were powder blue and skintight, and her lemon T-shirt was a second skin over a pair of primed, highly explosive breasts with